Christine Dorsey - [Sea 01] (30 page)

He took another step, but before he could follow her into the hall, Henry was by his side, turning him and thanking him for doing the right thing.

“You won’t be sorry you did this, Jack. You’ve made right a wrong you committed. And this marriage needn’t interfere with your life.”

When Jack looked back, Miranda was gone.

By the time he stepped out onto the street, Jack had again been wished luck on his trip, this time by Henry. He’d also been paid for the cargo his crew had delivered to Henry’s warehouse by the dock.

Jack took a deep breath and let the sultry night settle around him. Fireflies twinkled in the dark as he headed away from the house. He could smell the salty scent of the sea on the air and it beckoned, but Jack hesitated.

His fingers balled into fists, and he cursed himself his weakness. But there was something else... someone else... who held more allure. Turning on his heel, Jack retraced his steps to the Chadwick front door in long strides.

“What the—” Henry peeked out through the sliver of light he made when he cracked open the door— “Jack, what is it? What do you want?”

“My wife,” was all he said, as he pushed through the door and headed for the stairs.

Jack took the stairs two at a time. He hesitated only once, at the landing, when he heard Henry’s plaintive, “You’ve got no right—”

“I’ve every right.” Jack turned and glared down at the older man, who clung to the newel at the bottom of the staircase. “We were wed before God and man.” Jack dragged his fingers back through golden hair. “I’ve every right,” he repeated softly before continuing up the steps.

Henry didn’t follow, but Jack had already decided it would do his friend no good. He wanted Miranda, and he intended to have her. He pushed any thoughts that she might not want him from his mind.

Standing outside his wife’s door, Jack considered knocking, had his hand raised to the panel, then changed his mind and reached for the latch. Pirates didn’t knock, by God. And right now he felt like a pirate. A wild, free buccaneer.

Miranda jumped when he slammed open the door. She was staring out the window, her gown unhooked and loose around her alabaster shoulders. Clutching it to her breast, she stared, wide-eyed, not knowing what to think.

The flickery flame from the single candle she’d lit glowed over his golden hair and bronzed skin. He was dressed in the clothes of a civilized man, but there was nothing... nothing civilized about him. He looked savage and untamed, his nostrils flaring and his jaw clenched.

With the heel of his boot, he kicked the door shut, then strode to the center of the room. Feet spread on the Aubusson carpet, hands balled on narrow hips, he silently dared her to question his right to be there.

Miranda said nothing. Her breathing became shallow, and her skin tingled... and she waited.

“I’ve come to partake of my marital rights,” he said, his voice low and rough.

Still Miranda said nothing. She wet her suddenly dry lips, let her gaze roam the length of him, and swallowed.

Then she dropped her gown. Before it puddled to the floor, her arms reached out for him.

Jack didn’t remember moving, but suddenly he was across the carpet, lifting Miranda against him. She was soft and warm, and the moment his lips touched hers Jack groaned. The kiss was frenzied and deep, and before it ended Jack and Miranda had tumbled onto her bed. The feather ticking and comforter billowed around them as they rolled across the mattress, first Miranda on top, then Jack.

When his lungs burned for oxygen, Jack raised his head and sucked in air. Her breathing was as ragged as his. And she seemed thoroughly baffled by what was happening. Her hair had come loose from its coils and, lay in frantic disarray, vivid black against the pale pink counterpane. Her perfect, moist lips parted, and knowing Miranda, Jack suspected a question lurked behind the languid blue eyes.

But she didn’t ask, she demanded. Gathering handfuls of golden hair, Miranda pulled his mouth back down to hers... and Jack was lost.

The veneer of control he’d exercised dissolved, leaving only a core of pulsing need. His mouth roamed over her skin, racing down the fragile column of her neck, devouring the petal-soft flesh above her shift. She smelled like flowers, like the sweetest, most exotic flowers. Like magnolia and jasmine, and honeysuckle, and he couldn’t get enough.

When the fine cotton of the shift blocked him from her, Jack tore it aside as ruthlessly as the pirate he was. She arched into him when he took her breast in his greedy mouth. She moaned and grabbed his head when his tongue flicked over the nipple.

His teeth nipped and his lips soothed and the pounding in his head matched the throbbing in his groin. Jack tore at the corset, but though he found the ribbons, they tangled. He couldn’t seem to keep his hands off her body long enough to give the ties his full attention. “Can you... ?” His voice was husky, muffled by the valley between her breasts.

“Let me.” The words were no more than a breath of air. She arched up to reach behind her, but the motion pushed her breast farther into his hungry mouth. Miranda moaned and tore at his clothes instead of her own. She shoved the silk jacket off his powerful shoulders. His waistcoat wouldn’t budge, but she managed to tear open his shirt and ran her fingers over the sleek skin beneath.

Frustrated, Jack gave up on the stays and skimmed his hand up her thighs. Her legs opened, and moist heat welcomed him, drove him over the edge. He yanked at his breeches, flipped up the hem of her shift and thrust deep inside her.

Their mingled sighs of relief were soon lost in a frenzy of movement. Jack drove deeper, harder, lost in a rush of passion that swept him mindlessly away.

And Miranda met, welcomed, every urgent plunge, shamelessly, wantonly. When she felt herself lifting, soaring beyond the confines of earth, her fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt. She flew, sailing above the clouds where, the heavens exploded into the vibrant colors of the rainbow. Yellows, reds and violets swam behind her closed lids, dizzying in their brilliance. Jack sensed her release, and his own burst upon him with the force of a broadside.

At first he was too spent to do more than collapse, his legs tangled with hers, his face buried in her sweet-smelling hair. The pounding in his body slowed, and he tried to pull himself up from the abyss he’d just catapulted over.

Control. He needed to gain some. But all he really wanted to do was look into her eyes and kiss her sweet lips. Jack elbowed his weight off her, and studied her face, uncommonly pleased to see her expression of unabashed wonder.

His lips skimmed across hers, once, then because she tasted so very good, again. “No gravity?” he asked, his breath soft on her cheek.

Miranda’s lashes lowered, and she took a deep breath. “Isaac Newton would be amazed.” She felt his chuckle down the length of his body to where they were still joined. Miranda’s legs tightened around his.

His body noticed... responded to her motion.

“What is that feeling?”

Jack smiled and nipped at the end of her nose. He didn’t even mind her questions at the moment. “Heaven,” he answered, and it seemed to satisfy her. He brushed his cheek across her forehead, kissed her earlobe and the underside of her chin, and all the while he felt himself expanding and hardening inside her.

His mouth found hers, and before he knew what was happening Jack was once more slipping out of control. He wanted to undress before they made love a second time. At least shed his boots. But there didn’t seem to be any stopping once he began. His body already ached for release, and when he tasted the skin at the base of her throat; her pulse fluttered frantically against his mouth.

Following so quickly on the heels of their last climax, Jack couldn’t believe how violently their bodies trembled with each touch. How they clutched at each other, surging upward and riding the tidal wave as it crested and then spiraled downward.

This time Jack levered off her and rolled to the side. She looked delicate and fragile as he gathered her into his arms. He sighed, fluttering the wispy curls along her temple, and tightened his embrace.

She winced.

“What? Did I hurt you?” God’s blood, he’d been rough and impatient.

“No. It’s just my stays. I’m really not used to them. Grandfather always said our anatomy wasn’t meant to be squeezed and shoved about so.”

“I think I would have liked your grandfather.” Jack leaned up on his elbow. “Turn over and let me untie these.”

The ribbons were much easier to undo this time, though Jack found he had to force himself to ignore the rounded curve of her shoulder and the scent of her skin. When he unwound the stays and smiled at her sigh of relief, it only seemed natural to skim the torn shift over her head.

He tried to keep his breathing calm when she lay revealed on the rumpled bedding. “I...  should I strip off your stockings?”

Miranda nodded, but Jack didn’t see. His gaze roamed over her body. He dipped his head, his hair whispering across her flesh as he kissed one knee, then the other.

“Dimples,” he murmured while untying the garters and rolling the cotton down her slender calves. Her feet were ticklish, and Jack grinned when she jerked them from his grasp.

She was naked, and beautiful, and Lord help him, he was hard again. Not just hard... aching. With a grunt Jack swiveled around and tugged at his boots. He’d had no real plan when he’d come back to Miranda, aside from enjoying his husbandly rights. But vaguely, in the back of his mind, he’d thought to stay only a short time with her, then be off to his ship.

Now he wanted to stay the night. To do more than make love to her. To hold her while she slept and then wake up with her, and love her again. It was foolish, he knew, but he wanted it all the same. And what was keeping him from having it?

He’d be on the
Sea Hawk
fair and early, in plenty of time to catch the tide.

His breeches were next. He shucked them down over his hips, unhooking the silk from his swollen sex. His shirt was torn, and he tossed it and his waistcoat aside as he headed for the door.

“What are you doing?”

Jack turned the brass key in the lock. “Assuring our privacy.” He couldn’t imagine Henry was taking too kindly to his settling in Miranda’s room, and he didn’t want any unpleasant surprises. He heard a giggle and turned to his wife, grinning. He guessed she was thinking near the same thing as he.

She leaned up on her elbows, and as he watched, her smile faded. Her eyes darkened as they strayed over him, and Jack felt his chest swell with masculine pride.

“You’re much more comely than David,” she whispered, and his ego deflated.

“Who in bloody hell is David?” In three strides he was across the room, knee on bed, glaring down at her.

“Why, Michelangelo’s David. The statue, of course. He’s supposed to be the epitome of male beauty, but I think—What’s the matter? Haven’t you heard of Michelangelo? He was a sixteenth century Italian artist—”

“I know who he was.” At least he thought he remembered something about him from his tutor in Scotland. But that was so long ago, and Jack hadn’t been the best of students.

He settled onto the bed, pulling the netting down around them. “Have you studied this David a lot?”

“No.”

Jack thought he saw a hint of color seep into her cheeks. He leaned on his elbow and watched her. “You seem to know a fair amount about him.”

“I’ve seen a drawing of the sculpture. He has good musculature.” Miranda lowered her lashes. The way he looked at her made her warm all over.

“Musculature, huh?” Jack let his finger drift from her collarbone to the tip of her breast. “I have muscles.”

“I know.” Her nipple hardened, and Miranda sighed. “Yours are quite large.”

“Ummm.” His thumb dipped into her navel, then skimmed lower.

“Yes, but then everything about you is... large, I mean,” Miranda managed as she arched into his cupped hand.

“Are you cold?” Jack pulled the linen sheet up around Miranda’s shoulders and snuggled her closer. She lay with her head on his chest, her legs spanning one of his. He’d thought she was comfortable until he felt her tremble.

“Nay.” Her voice was drowsy, for the hour was late. The flame had long since guttered into the hot tallow, and only the moonlight filtering through the windows lit the room.

“ ‘Tis only that this night seems unreal.”

“And that made you shudder?”

Miranda lifted her head. “It’s hard for me to understand the way I feel.”

Jack sighed, bringing her head back against his shoulder. “I don’t understand it either:” He felt less and less the cocky pirate as the night waned. “But I do know that this is unreal. Tomorrow—” his fingers sifted through her hair— “with the rising of the sun you will have your reality back.”

“I didn’t say I wanted it back.” Miranda shifted, settling more fully over him. Her legs tangled with his as she ran her hands over the smooth flesh, the hard muscles beneath.

Midnight black curls curtained him and Jack reached up to touch the pale oval of her face. His fingers wound around her neck, pulling her lips to his. He loved her slowly this time, gently, till the passion swept them away.